The taxi slammed on its brakes at the corner of a pitch-black street in East LA. The driver snatched the cash from Briana's hand and sped off like he was fleeing a war zone.
Briana ignored the freezing drizzle. She ran through an alley choked with garbage and stagnant water, bursting through the doors of a rotting apartment building that reeked of urine and decay.
She took the concrete stairs two at a time, her lungs burning, until she reached the third floor. She stopped in front of a peeling wooden door.
Inside, she could hear Doyle's obnoxious laughter and the high-pitched giggling of his mistress, Gretchen. There was no panic. No hostage situation.
The last thread of Briana's sanity snapped.
She took two steps back, braced her good leg against the floorboards, and threw her entire body weight forward, ramming her shoulder into the lock with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The rotting wood splintered with a loud crack. The door flew open, slamming violently against the interior wall.
Doyle, sitting on a stained sofa with Gretchen on his lap, jumped out of his skin. He dropped the stack of dirty bills he was counting.
When he saw Briana, his shock morphed into ugly rage. He grabbed an empty beer bottle from the table and pointed it at her. "You ungrateful bitch! You put Preston in the hospital! The gang is after me because of you!"
Briana's eyes swept the tiny, filthy room. Eleonora wasn't there.
Murderous intent flooded her veins. She reached behind her and pushed the broken door shut. Click.
Doyle sneered, emboldened by the alcohol in his system. He lunged at her, raising the bottle to smash it over her head.
Briana didn't flinch. She ducked under his clumsy swing. She pivoted, driving her elbow brutally into his soft, bloated stomach.
Doyle gasped, all the air leaving his lungs. The bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
Before he could recover, Briana grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair. She yanked his head down and slammed his face directly into the glass-covered coffee table.
The glass shattered completely. Doyle screamed-a wet, gurgling sound-and collapsed to the floor, his face a bloody mess.
Gretchen shrieked in terror. She scrambled off the sofa and crawled toward the door.
Briana lunged like a predator. She grabbed Gretchen by her blonde extensions and dragged her backward across the floor.
Gretchen thrashed wildly, her long acrylic nails scratching deep, bloody lines down Briana's forearm.
Briana didn't feel it. She slammed her knee into Gretchen's back, pinning her flat against the floorboards. She reached out and grabbed the largest, sharpest shard of the broken beer bottle.
She pressed the jagged edge hard against Gretchen's carotid artery.
Gretchen froze instantly.
"I'm only going to ask this once," Briana whispered, her voice a dead, hollow sound that belonged in a graveyard. "Where is my mother?"
She pressed the glass a millimeter deeper. A thin line of blood welled up and trickled down Gretchen's neck. A warm, pungent smell filled the air as Gretchen lost control of her bladder.
"The South Side!" Gretchen sobbed hysterically. "The abandoned auto shop! They locked her in the basement!"
Briana's eyes went cold. She flipped the medical scissors in her hand and brought the heavy metal handle down hard against the back of Gretchen's skull. The woman went limp.
Briana stood up. She walked over to Doyle, who was moaning on the floor. She dug into his pockets and pulled out a set of keys with a Ford logo.
She looked down at his right hand. Without a change in expression, she raised her boot and stomped down hard on his fingers.
Three bones snapped like dry twigs. Doyle passed out from the pain.
Briana stepped over the bodies, walked out the door, and ran down to the alley. She found the rusted pickup truck, jammed the key in the ignition, and tore out onto the street, heading south.
